Shining Like the Sun
by BC
Summary: Albus talks to Gellert. Inside his head. (He has never been any good at resisting temptation.)
1. November 1981

"Congratulations are warranted, I suppose?"

Albus froze.

He extended his senses, but the wards continued humming their unharmonised melodies, Fawkes was sleeping, undisturbed, and there was no physical presence in the Headmaster's Office.

"Gellert?" Albus tentatively spoke after a while. He did have a portrait of Gellert, secreted under several privacy spells and a rather diabolically complex lock, inside the drawer of his bedside. It was a muggle picture, painted from a photograph.

It could not have moved, much less spoken.

"Oh, well, if this is the only way I can make your heart beat fast, I'll take it," replied Gellert's voice, far too amused.

It could _not_ have been him. Gellert was serving out his sentence – solitary imprisonment for the rest of his life. It was akin to a house arrest, except for the extreme measures taken to prevent his escape. Albus had been consulted, and contributed extensively – after all, Gellert had previously escaped from the most secure holding cells all over the globe, and Albus was the only one who had any insight into how Gellert's mind worked.

The mechanics of the prison were arguably Albus' cleverest idea to date.

He had turned Nurmengard – Gellert's home – into a giant inward mirror. Gellert could not leave it, and wherever inside it he went, everything he encountered was a mere reflection of himself. _He_ was his own guards, the portraits on his walls, the gargoyles and grotesques, the ghosts roaming the halls with angry accusations. Everything he met was himself.

Gellert could always make anyone and everyone love him… except himself.

Cruel? Perhaps. Albus could be _exquisitely_ cruel when the occasion called for it. And what occasion called for it more than the breaking of a heart?

Oh, he could have torn Gellert's chest open and eaten his own heart, but it would not have satisfied him. No, this revenge lasted far longer, allowed Albus to keep his moral high ground and – best of all – it meant that Gellert was still there if Albus chose to meet him again.

He had simply not expected that Gellert might conceive of a way to meet Albus first.

Albus could barely breathe; there was such pain behind his ribs that he momentarily wondered is he was having a heart attack. Perhaps this was merely a hallucination, induced by the agony of dying?

But, no. At least not literally. The pain was simply the rekindling of his ardent passion, of the infatuation that had settled at his core a long time ago and would be dislodged neither with treason, nor with pain and loss, nor with a disagreement at the most fundamental level. Who but Gellert could have found a way to subvert Albus' mirrormaze? Whose brilliance could compare?

Gellert shimmered into existence, like a ghost, in the armchair situated opposite Albus'. He seemed – contented. It was unfair to see him so at ease, especially at a time when Albus was wrecked with grief, guilt and doubt.

"Are you dead?" Albus inquired. That would have been an escape route, certainly.

He hoped – and hated himself for it – that it was not so.

"No more than you, my dear," Gellert assured him. That was, if this vision was Gellert, of which Albus was not entirely convinced.

Granted, his usual lucid dreaming tended toward less emotionally charged scenarios.

Albus wished he could go back and make fewer mistakes. He doubted Gellert felt like that; he doubted Gellert even acknowledged that he made any mistakes. Albus wished he had never found overconfidence attractive.

"I was too young and nad've," Gellert muttered with a half-smile – a bittersweet expression aimed at his sixteen-year-old self – supporting the notion that this was all happening inside Albus' mind, which reacted to the recent stress by dredging up unfinished business best forgotten.

Gellert smile turned conspiratorial. "Of course it is happening inside your head, Albus, but why on earth should that mean it is not real?"

Albus stared as Gellert's form slowly filled in, became more defined, and started gaining colour.

"I still believe that was when we ruined ourselves. We could have salvaged everything, but I ran, terrified of retaliation, and you played up the contrite act, because throwing me to the wolves saved you from being eaten." Gellert had been two years younger than Albus, and while that seemed like a laughable age difference now, at the time when they met it had been crucial.

"She was my sister," Albus protested, but the words were hollow. He had, of course, cared for her. But never the way Aberforth did. And never without the caveat of wishing he were free of the burden.

"Regardless of which one of us hit Arianna – and you know neither of us meant to-"

Yes, Albus might have used the rhetoric when disclaiming Gellert as a villain that had compromised him briefly (to reassure the gullible that Albus did, indeed, stand for all that was right and pure in these confused times), but he had always known that Gellert would not have intentionally harmed Arianna.

"-we both handled it wrong."

Gellert had morbidly thought Arianna was lovely – broken, and absurdly powerful, and possibly _useful_ if managed correctly. Gellert was fascinated by Arianna.

If either of them would have willingly killed her, it would have been Albus, blinded by jealousy and yearning to free himself of the yoke.

But he hadn't.

He had not.

It had been _an accident_.

"I should have just killed Aberforth as well, and staged it as an Obscurial losing control," Gellert suggested. "The Ministry would have covered it up for us. You know how they like to pretend that Obscuriae don't happen, _Sonnenschein_."

Albus' breath caught.

He might have imagined Gellert. He couldn't deny that he thought of his (beloved) enemy often, even now. Asked himself 'what Gellert would do' in some fraught instances, if only to know which option to discard. Daydreamed of the futures they might have had _if only_ …

But he did not aim to torture himself. In all his fanciful imaginings, he never used that address.

That was solely Gellert's.

"How?" he demanded.

"We are soul-bonded, my dear," Gellert said with that sweet smile that made Albus yearn to be held close to his warmth, held fast and reassured that it would always and forever be them against the world. "And I've had nothing to do in this luxuriant prison of mine but read and train."

"I thought giving you no sentient wards would keep you from _charming_ your way out," Albus replied, forcefully reminding himself of all the atrocities Gellert had committed – of the young wizards and witches he had twisted, of the families he had slaughtered when they disagreed with his politics.

Of the babies he had 'spared the fate of an orphan'.

There was an orphaned baby sleeping in Albus' bedroom right now. Not for a lack of trying on Tom's side, though.

There were too many, far too many similarities between Tom and Gellert.

How could Albus not have suspected Tom of the worst intentions and deeds ever since they met?

How could Albus not _love_ him like the son he never would have?

And Tom had not disappointed, had he? Not in either of those expectations.

"I'm still locked up, _Sonnenschein_ ," Gellert reminded him, _reassured_ him, although – being Gellert – of course he was aware that this reassurance simply twisted the knife. "Consider how perfect must be your measures to keep me contained, if the way out I chose to pursue was inside my head."

 _Perfect_. Well, Albus had done his best. Perhaps he ought not to have.

Perhaps giving Gellert a chance to escape would have inspired the next round of war across the nations rather than the massacre Tom had committed upon Britain.

It was all a matter of checks and balances. Smaller evils perpetrated to prevent the passing of a greater evil. Albus and Gellert had never agreed on which evil was smaller and which greater, but they shared the weltanschauung.

"Goodness, but did you fuck up with that boy. Why on earth would you have let him live?"

Because… oh dear providence, Albus had never, ever faced his true feelings on the matter… "…because I looked at him and saw what a child of the two of us would have been like."

Silence fell upon the room. Albus opened his eyes-

And then opened his eyes for real. The room had not changed at all. The reddish-golden glow from the fireplace, Fawkes sleeping with his head tucked under his wing, and the cacophonous hum of the school wards in the back of his head.

The armchair where Albus rested his feet was empty.

A part of him cried out at the loss. Something in him – his soul, perhaps – reached out across the distance and tried to keep hold on the memory of Gellert, but the space it reached was filled with dead air.

He clenched his teeth to smother a sob. His eyes fell shut to block out the sight-

And there he was again.

Albus' mind replicated the office, the way he wanted it to be. The exact way he wanted it to be: a reddish-golden glow from the fireplace, Fawkes sleeping with his head tucked under his wing, the cacophonous hum of the school wards in the back of his head, and his love sitting in the armchair opposite – Gellert's hands rubbing the soles of Albus' feet, which Albus had proprietarily rested in his lap.

"What are you going to do now, my dear?" Gellert asked.

Kiss you, Albus thought. If I may?

But he did not say that aloud. At times he felt like Koshchey, with his heart displaced, hidden behind powerful wards inside a box devised to contain it until the end of its days. And what was left of Albus – no one could argue that it was a whole being.

Albus was a means to an end, an instrument of his own design. He was the lighthouse for the British wizarding world, for all that they mistook him for a guardian and defender.

He could never be that. He could never stand against darkness. He was too compromised by his feelings.

All he could do was illuminate.

"I shall take care of little Harry," Albus replied, although he was at sea about what 'take care' meant in this instance. In Gellert's hands, Harry would already have been _granted mercy_.

And Gellert would have been right.

What Tom had done to the infant, if unintentionally, was foul and no less than horrifying. Upon discovering it, Albus had kept his dinner only through the virtue of having lived through three wars and seen much worse.

Albus could simply raise his wand, utter those two words, and destroy whatever lingering presence of Tom there was along with a young life destined to be filled with strife. He could claim the child succumbed to the aftereffects of Tom's magic during the night – who would doubt his word?

Tom had created a martyr; it was within Albus' power to save this boy from having to live with that brand.

Gellert watched the thought-process to its end and then sighed, disappointed. "For someone that routinely gambles with people's lives, you are far too squeamish about getting your own hands dirty, Albus."

"I never wanted any of this," Albus said, for perhaps the hundredth time.

Gellert certainly seemed tired of hearing it. "And your reaction to getting it was bungling it. So much power, and you just sit there pretending you can't do anything, because if you don't do anything, it means the failures aren't _your_ fault."

Albus tried to pull his feet away, but Gellert kept a firm hold on his ankle.

"I showed you how to get people to do what you want them to do," Gellert said, "and you're happy to use it when you feel like it. But when it comes to making decisions, you hem and haw."

"I am not the one best qualified to make decisions-"

"Compared to whom? To the idiots that actually _govern_ right now? To the morons and puppets that make a complete hash out of what could have been a dignified and prosperous society?" Gellert sneered. "You would be _best qualified_ , Albus, if you weren't such a damn coward."

Albus swallowed dry. "But I am. I am afraid – I was always afraid. I was so scared."

Gellert never understood that.

This was the darker part of their relationship – the one Albus didn't like to remember. Gellert pushed. He always, always pushed, demanding that Albus do things he wasn't comfortable doing, that he put the Greater Good before his family and before the prospect of a career at the Ministry-

And Albus had envied him the ability to do so. The ability to reach for his dreams.

How ironic, he mused, that in his old age the only thing left to him were dreams. All of them tragically unrealised. The closest he came to happiness was having his mass-murdering erstwhile companion subvert the protections of his prison to violate Albus' mind.

"I see," Gellert spoke eventually. He released the hold on Albus' ankle and, leaning forward, set both Albus' feet onto the carpet, gently but uncompromisingly refusing Albus the comfort of the (meta-)physical touch. "So that's what you're going to do now. Continue succumbing to your fears. _Not_ kill that child, even though you know Tom has a hold on it. Put it somewhere out of your sight, so you don't even have to think about its hardships. Groom some clueless thing to fight Tom in your stead."

Albus thought of the prophecy. None of this was his choice. It was out of his hands-

"You'll find a way to justify it to yourself. You always do." Gellert crossed his arms in front of his chest. "I wish I could quit you – I really do. Too bad the only window out of this box is your mind." His eyes narrowed. "I think I might actually prefer my reflection-"

" _Kindermörder_ ," Albus snapped, spurred by sheer devastation.

" _Sonnenschein_ ," Gellert retorted dryly by way of farewell, before he disappeared.

Albus opened his eyes and heard the whimper of an infant come from his bedroom. Little Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. The boy who would live, and thrive, and grow into a fierce fighter to stand against Tom.

Albus would have him taken to Lily's family tomorrow.


	2. August 1991

A/N: I mean, I know the few of you who read the first installment weren't exactly impressed, but this writes itself, and now that it's written I might as well post it. Happy Valentine's!

I'm going to be the change I want in the world! And write a whole lot of this crap just because I enjoy the hell out of it! ...maybe.

Technical stuff: this will work like a series. I will keep it marked as 'completed', and whenever I feel like it I might add a chapter. I've got a bunch of ideas already, but feel free to suggest a canon situation you'd like to see enriched by Gellert's glossing.

On the off chance that you actually, you know, read this.

x

August 1991

x

'The half-giant.' Gellert considered Hagrid's departing form from behind Albus' eyes. 'Of all the people at your disposal, you send – _that_.'

Albus popped a sherbet lemon into his mouth, hoping to wash away the phantom taste of casual racism.

There was much a man like Hagrid had to offer. He was kind. He had a way with animals, and also with a certain kind of children. His simplicity was far from vexing; it was relaxing in its own way.

Gellert – unsurprisingly – did not agree with Albus' choice of Harry's guide to the wizarding world. 'No need to be defensive, my dear. I understand the appeal of followers who gladly let me do their thinking for them. I merely question the wisdom of relying on the incompetence of someone so determined to please you.'

He might have had a point, if Albus had not known Hagrid for fifty years. Albus could predict him down to the specific slip of a tongue. He wanted to seed information while maintaining the notion that said information was secret?

He confided in Hagrid.

It was as close to foolproof as anything involving people could be.

Gellert laughed. 'I have always excelled at conversion, but you, my dear, are a master of indoctrination.'

That was rather an extreme word for the few soft nudges Albus was giving Harry. Albus would prefer to have Harry in any House but Slytherin. Not out of any sense of House pride, or because he doubted Severus' ability to toe the line in between an educator and a spy – although, admittedly, having Harry under his direct influence would put Severus into a nigh-on untenable position once Tom reappeared.

'I want Harry to have friends.'

'Friends.' Gellert chuckled. Then he laughed. ' _Friends_!'

'I realise you do not believe in the concept, but-'

'Do cunning and ambitious people not make good friends, Albus?' Gellert inquired, still chuckling.

Albus steepled his fingers. 'I imagine not, although I have no personal experience in the field. Why, Gellert – have _you_ had many friends over the course of _your_ life?'

'A multitude.'

' _Freunde_ ,' Albus translated. It meant something different. It meant something different _to them_.

When Albus spoke of friendship, he envisioned mutual loyalty, support and affection. When he spoke of _Freundschaft_ (a word he could never quite cleanse of Gellert's mocking inflection), the loyalty, support and affection were only true on one side, whereas the other side was putting in just enough effort to make the farce seem believable.

'You know I do not believe that the children in Slytherin in any way differ from the children in other Houses. It is these particular children-' Specifically Draco Malfoy, Theodore Nott, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, regarding whose Sorting Albus had minimal doubts. '-and their parents who worry me.'

Albus could just imagine the chain of events if Harry befriended young Mr Malfoy. An invitation to spend time at the Malfoys' over the course of the winter holidays, which of course Harry would have no reason to reject – the atmosphere at the Dursleys' being what it was – and by New Years the Boy Who Lived would be nowhere to find, and Lucius would be donating an eyebrow-raising amount of money to the (very pointless) search and rescue operations.

Tom's sympathisers had children in all four Houses, of course. Albus had to maneuver Harry toward peers whose friendship would not see him dead within the year.

'Keeping him alive constitutes a risk to the entire society – and yet you persist, out of _sentiment_.'

Albus took that to mean that Gellert could find no errors in his logic, and was thus forced to repeat his previous criticisms of Albus' choices.

That was quite satisfying.


End file.
